Cynthia Buell Thomas

Biography

The picture on this profile is by Pablo Picasso, 'The Aperitif'. I admire its boldness, the spirit of strong femininity. There is a poem in my Samples celebrating this realism.
I am Canadian - Bermudian - British; of Irish and English descent (Norman actually); a teacher/tutor of Basic Maths, English and Music; a professional singer, an amateur actress, and a published poet; married with twin daughters.
I have owned a Manufacturing/Retailing business in craftworks, and later, a Real Estate firm with both selling and letting departments. For many years I had responsibility for staffs up to 20 people while operating four shops simultaneously, and raising twins. It was challenging. I had to learn to be precise; waffling about was a potential killer of energy and effectiveness. But I tried never to lose the focus of that famous idea: I SEE YOU, applied to all persons within my personal sphere.
I read widely, appreciate an extensive range of music and greatly enjoy stimulating conversation. I try never to close my mind.
Above all, I offer unconditional respect to all persons and expect the same in return.

Samples

THE PARTING
My heartbeats measure the night.
How many weeks now has sleep mocked me?
How many months?
Late in the breathing hours when
My blood’s rhythm drowns my mind,
When I softly touch oblivion –
My hands betray me.
Through my fingertips pulses
The feel of you;
My treacherous hands throb down your body
Until their aching need pervades my thighs –
My heart – my soul.
But I have nothing –
Only the feel of you in my fingers.
THE DREAM-FOOTER
HEY! FATSO!
It was a spring-loving day.
YEAH PORKY!
So early the sun shone deeply warm.
CHOPCHOPCHOP!
Across the fields an easy wind sighed
Fragrant with cherry blossoms.
PIMPLEFACE!
Her bare feet disturbed light eddies of dust.
HEADLIIIGHTS!
Around her thick long hair a red sash glowed.
She felt very beautiful.
Out of the village proper and down the country road
She dream-footed heavily.
She was fat – a porky – pimply – impossibly ridiculous –
And impregnable;
Behind those imperturbable eyes swelled an exotic bloom
Ripe to unfold rare petals.
She pushed a beat-up baby pram
Carrying a peanut butter sandwich, two books,
A cheap blanket won at a church fair,
Eyeglasses wrapped in toilet paper,
And a tambourine:
Tin, with six clinky jingles
And the ugly picture of a black-haired dancer,
Spinning,
In vulgar red and bold blue,
A free, wild, whirling
Gypsy.
By the rusted wire gate that no one shut any more because
The farmer kept his cows in another pasture,
Over the oozy ruts
Hop-skipping on the dry spots of the insecure furrows,
Dragging the carriage,
She dream-footed heavily,
The jibes of the village street only a field away.
Down to the creek
Where dashing little waterfalls slowed
To a single sinewy current in mid-stream
And the banks lay in opaque water smoothness,
Damp and glossy with long marsh grass,
Where only the long-fingered weeping willow could point
And the golden-eyed bloodroot see,
Down to the creek
She dream-footed lightly.
Nobody to call: ‘HEY FATSO! CHOPCHOPCHOP!
By the froggy sky-mirrored water she danced,
Tapping her tambourine,
Quivering with the nervous delight of silken sleeves
Cool slipping down her arms;
Dizzy from the swimming trees excitedly flying around,
Her skirt a swirl of red, orange, green, blue and
Yellow – a treasure, striped in every bright colour,
Hanging to the ankles.
As she jingled her jangles and joyously stamped
Her naked feet, she sang,
‘Tra la la la la la la,’
The clear song of a shameless bird calling
In the springtime.
She flung herself panting to the cushiony earth
And twined her fingers in the sweet grass.
A violet brushed her nose.
She smiled; it was so pretty, its open face so big.
Closing her eyes, back she sank
And dreamed.
TO FELLOW POETS
if my mind worked
like your mind
where is the joy in that
because your ideas
broaden my ideas
you thrill me
perhaps I would not say it
exactly so
but enough so
to understand your thrust and pull
to glory in your view of things
all things
I find
the halo of humanity
is receptivity.
FLASHBACK
Icelandic ash
swept over Europe
high altitude shroud
scouring glass and metal
all flights cancelled
for six days
the sky breathed
naturally
serenely blue
washed with dimpled sunshine
dappled clouds of long ago
whimsy on lazy wind
eye comfortable
content to be weather vanes
too soon
jet trails
scored the atmosphere
criss-crossing tic-tac-toe
skewed by schedules
and altitudes
heavy metal global bound
wounding glorious sunsets
like truculent children
scribbling on ancient canvases
modernity
re-defining outscapes
inscapes
airspace refugees dribbled home
LINES ON PABLO PICASSO'S 'L'APERITIF'
slim flower head
red pollen bold
erect on scarlet stalk
whispering scented smoke
with green breath absinthe moist
wormwood curled
the perfumed whiff of rosy cunt
pressed at bay
damp
between satin thighs
more sleek than silken stockings garter strapped
tantalizing roads to mossy fields
ungated
arm like a swan’s neck
imperious
conducting conversations
her way
pulling and pushing the lusts of men
and women
with her acrobatic words
grinding mince
out of reasoned philosophies
she balances the tray surely
the phallic bottle and the open-lipped glass
upon her palm spread
braced against one sturdy ham
crossed over
GIRL IN A LAKE
on heavy eyes the full moon cast gilded shadows
swan path shafting seductive to the shore where
she dropped her clothes and entered liquid light
jewelled feet icy lustrous pale arms high uplifted
now wide eyes of unwavering clarity enraptured
dream-wooing dream-possessed she sank gleaming
to her knees in the bitter midnight water open palms
thrust upward - reaching - offering - beseeching –
through her hands she felt sweet vines tumble upon
white breasts mellow blossoms shining wetly dark eyes
fixed the blinding moon enchanted ravished a black
mass mounted the shuddering lake a nervous breeze
whipped down the water invisible leaves slipped into
gobbling waves drooling tongues licking snatching at her
nakedness pushing silken thighs against hunched rocks
aghast she reared from their sucking mouths stumbled
back to shore where
trembling uncontrollably
she folded her clothes
over her mind
HURRICANE
In the lusty wind the cables whine
From pole to pole bending the matchwood
Wands by the throat fiercely.
Riding at high mast the grim-eyed beetles
Clamp their spiked boots deeper and check
The safety lock on their leather girdles.
With unnatural fingers they fumble for the
Lurching wires that clash spitting sparks
And lunge apart merrily hissing.
Rude logic measures the steel, the wind, the wand,
And knows one fateful gust will undo mathematics;
One dancing wire with threaded jowls
Could tear a man’s head from his fearful shoulders
And send it flying into the gale
Like a funny ball,
Into the maws of the thrashing trees spewing
Great cracking branches
As dandelion hair.
Frantically we bang the shutters together
And throw the lawn furniture into the shed
Higgledy-piggledy;
Push the picnic table against the back door
And try to grab the jumping clay pot that
Leaps out of its macramé net upsetting the
Surprised ivy on to the porch steps.
Leave it! Get in! Get in!
Cowering in the heart of its snapping bush
One gorgeous red hibiscus not yet shredded
Bleeds on my eye.
Blindly I dash to its rescue, and pluck it free,
Cupping it in my hands, gently.
Back through the gale I jack-knife
Cradling its unblemished beauty.
I set it in the window –
To shine
For the men on the lines.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

that poem was the first thing you thought of?
next time
get some coffee first.

I appreciate your comments.
hope I can live up to your expectations.

Did you do the painting of the girl in the red dress?

Devon Brock

Thu 20th Jun 2019 22:25

Hi Cynthia. Thanks for welcoming me to WOL. As far as old geezer goes, I'm bellysliding down the back side of the hill, green grass stains on the inside of my lower lip and loving every minute of it. I dig the diversity of style in your samples - you won;t be pinned down. Look forward to reading more and more and more.

Hi Cynthia! That sounds yummy! Actualluy when i said I liked to eat ice cream all year long I ment all year long during all FOUR years of my little affair with Mr. C ! I'd say be careful with the weight but in all honesty Cynthia those ice-creams got me out of bed into my clothes and out of the house so screw it. Do what makes you happy! When you finally make it to the finish line that's when you'll start building your life all over. If you have an extra pound or two, the hell with it, you'll lose them in no time and if not then there will be just more of you to love! No big deal!
If you are referring to my the one that says: "Art is the imaginary solution to a problem that is unsolvable in real life." then yes it is originally mine. It is what I discovered when I first started writing. I have many a short story written that have a matching cross to be born! I remember the first one, I wrote it in the middle of a sleepless night. I fell asleep as soon as I finished the last word!
Thanks for stopping by on my profile! Be strong! Get well! 🎈
Mae

P.S. Your Bio is astounding! How is it possible for one person to do ALL that??? Really, tell me your secret!

Liked your poem '1ast Chemio Session', and as I assume it is autobiographical, am so happy for you to be out of the wood. I had a similar experience 20 years ago, but got off with just radiotherapy, and have been in the clear ever since. Treatment seems to be so much more effective now. All the best!

Hi Cynthia, thanks so much for the comment on Letter From The Lake. You're spot on, typo on wry/rye, doh! Have corrected. Glad you enjoyed it, I watched the film Withnail & I and then this poem just came straight out afterwards. Hope it doesn't ruin the mystery to reveal the process 😃 Thanks as always, Tom. x

hello cynthia, hope your well
i was just wondering when WOL Sale is on next and whether there would be a spot for me to perform? i have a new book out and i am trying to get out and about to promote it a bit.
thanks
stu

"I tire of this conscious senility'... and so do we, sometimes, Tommy, so do we. And 'humour by disguise' is no humour at all if no one recognises it. You write by code for an elitist reader; if that is your aim, so be it.

But that is a terrible thought - to be in 'conscious senility'. Who with intelligence would deliberately induce senility? The reality of senility is heartbreaking, especially for those who witness it and can do nothing. The victim is powerless to care."

Dear Cynthia, Thank you for the warm welcoming words! I love your suggestion of being a giver to become a receiver.

My mother named me, and her love and thought is bonded with my name. Thank you liking it.

Tapashree has Sanskrit roots, and may be interpreted in a few ways. I prefer to believe it means "the soft glow of endurance".
Tapa means endurance.
Shree means Diffusing radiance, beauty, prosperity...

It may also be interpreted as the "beauty of heat" with Tapas (heat) and Shree.

Vicky Valdés

Wed 19th Sep 2018 14:17

Dear Cynthia,

Thank you so much for putting into words in sucha a beautiful way what the soul has to say.

In addition to your poetry, I want to thank you for being Cyanne's mom, my dear castmate in Up With People.

I appreciate and thank your legacy.

Much love from Mexico,

Vicky

Loly Monreal

Thu 6th Sep 2018 08:36

Ciao from Italy!
This is Loly Monreal from Mexico married with an italian. We have two girls.
Cyanne was my Castmate in "Viva la gente" we were together last year when all the beautiful family visit us here in Trentino,Italy . In this days we think very much about them because of the great memories harvesting on our wine-yard. All together were a strong hard working team!!!
I wish you all the best and think about you. reading your poems I will learn more English for sure 😉
Kisses and hugs on you way from all of us with great love and admiration!
Loly Monreal
💕

Jennifer Rabold

Thu 6th Sep 2018 02:29

Cynthia, your daughter Cyanne, my dear friend and castmate from Up With People, shared your poetry blog with me, and I love your work! I’m an old English teacher, and I love the lush imagery in your poems - such rich colors and beautiful sounds! I plan to read a few each day and maybe I’ll comment again! ❤️ Jennifer Rabold

Thankyou for your welcome on my profile. I am pleased to have found 'you lot'. Been feeling intellectually deprived down here. You'll have to forgive any 'putting-my-foot-in-it' comments I might make. 'I'm just a lowly poet trying to learn the ropes' ... and sometimes have trouble controlling my mind.

'taking the piss' Cynthia? I would never knowingly 'take the piss' 😉 this was an exercise in trying to create an archaic looking language to fit the archaic looking poem of a crows perspective on life. It was easily achieved using a phonetic translater - which uses emphasis on the words stresses - so reading it aloud is exactly the exercise needed to make it work - the 'translation' was more for those who simply tried to read it - rather than use the phonetics.
Glad you liked it
Ian

Hi Cynthia
yes - a sonnet - I like to write in traditional poetry forms now and again - it sooths the political beast in me 😃 glad you liked 'the beast beneath the beck' I appear to be in a fantasy/myths vein at the moment. Hope you're keeping well
Ian

Hi Cynthia
I would love to be able to come to Sale on Tuesday but alas I have a prior commitment for that night which I can't wriggle out of. Sorry about that. Hopefully I will see you at the next word central if you are there.
Regards
Martin